Some things are more perfect for what they're not.

I've been doing temp work in a nice office. By all means, it's exactly as an office should be. It's clean, and smells clean; each night a small troop of (allegedly) legal immigrants sweep through the building restoring order- like gnomes of the world 'mise en place'. It has air-conditioning (literally set to 'Office Temp'). Its lights are not so bright as to offend, nor dim enough to give a headache, illuminated exactly as the utopian industrial park would recommend. The desks and other work-type-units are as practical as they are rigid. The insulated glass keeps the noise outside and the quiet in; I can hear nothing but the sounds of my college and me typing. Nothing is out of place.

I hate it.

I think it's true to say that romance and fondness are formed in blemishes. How disappointing life would be without disappointment! Consider a road trip without adversity. Would it have been an adventure at all? What would it have been without the hilarious story about that time when your car broke down and an unforgettably unsavoury truck driver lent you a hand- your friend does an impression of him later.

Think of glistening memories attached to camping trips you went on as a kid; now remember how it rained the whole time, you slept in a puddle and got pneumonia, in the few hours there was sun, you got ridiculously sun burnt and went home covered in mosquito bites. Your mum blamed your father for being irresponsible and it was the best time of your life.

How tragic would a pirate map be if it was perfectly presented on a crisp white, clean cut piece of A4 paper? It has got to be stained and worn, burnt on the edges and a little torn, or else it's not a pirate map at all. It'd just be some terrible children's drawing with a big red 'x' and a bit that says "here be Monsters".

I've never understood people who take photos and then have them printed on a canvas; they've taken the canvas, blank risk, pure potential, artistic adrenalin, a surface destined for the next Egon Schiele and then safe-guarded it with some massive print of a photo they already knew they liked. To me, it lacks luster. Does anyone else agree that we need to leave photos in frames?

I like good coffee, but for some reason, I love drinking bad coffee; the sort of coffee that an American-diner would serve. Black Coffee. I'm picturing one of those rounded glass pots that the waiter keeps pouring and the coffee is never-ending. I'm in love with that place. Understand though, it's got nothing to do with the coffee, but all to do with the scene in which I'm drinking it – Sitting in the company of none but me and my moleskin, clinging onto that cup to keep me awake, fueling thought and discussion. A tragic, romantic and self indulgent setting (see earlier post 'Untitled').

If it were good coffee, I'd be in a terribly civilized environment trying to fit in, but in my 'dream' diner, I'm no different to the 5-O'clock-Shadow-hobo sitting opposite me. He and I aren't trying to be distinguished anymore. We've been brought together by the ideals of our bad coffee and all of a sudden, we have a perfect understanding. We're connected because of what we're not, where we're not.

Houses that are too clean make me nervous. Times New Roman, blue ink and excel sheets make me feel sick. I never want to be the person who has to organize everything in advance to feel secure; the person who would be stressed on planning, rather than giddy with not knowing. I never want to forget how much fun getting dirty is.

Perhaps my distain for this 'perfect' work-space stems from an underpinned love for humanity. I want it and everything else to be as imperfect as you and I, both loveable characters.

jf. x

Untitled 2#

Tell me of the world and time gone by,
Ever so slowly,
but densely important,
More than just space and time,

I want to hear the thoughts you set into orbit,
Flying through the air you occupy,
The sights and memories,
Captured by the lens of your eye,
The shapes in the clouds & the story of the sky,

The writings on the wall,
The ideas that float in a coffee cup,
Shared with a friend,
Destined to listen to each other's ramblings,
From beginning to end,

So if I cannot sleep tonight,
For fear of dreams from home,
Please give me sweet reminders,
That make me feel less alone.

jf. x

My Head is Full of Nothing

Title by Anonymous
Story by j.f. hawkins

“I woke up really late last night, to try and see if there was a story, but when I turned on the light, there was nothing”

I recall it exactly.

I was standing in the building and looking down stairs that lead to the main entrance. At the end of a long gray road, past the small crowd I seam to have generated…. there she was.

Caught in a moment of time, somewhere between summer and autumn, on the cusp of an end and at the start of a beginning. There she was. Standing just as casual as the suburban lane that brought her.

That’s how it was the first time I saw her, and how she reappears to me in a dream. Each time we meet, it’s like I still see her for the first time.

She was foreign and unfamiliar, but there was a sense of always having known her. She’s an old friend already. Even though every time is new. "We click", she said while doing a kind of dance.

I asked her if she needed a lift from the place we were at. Unfortunately, for her, I only had my bike. Still, she was happy to ride it with me.

I can’t know how she felt about the journey, but the way I recall it, it was perfect. Her little hands wrapped around my waist. It was cold out side, so to escape the wind, she buried her face into my back. She spoke and then giggled, I haven’t a clue what she said, all I knew was that her little voice boomed inside my ears. I was worried she’d hear my racing heart.

I dropped her at the station and I kissed her on the cheek. It was such an awkward goodbye because I wanted to stay longer. All our goodbyes are awkward because I never wanted to say them.

We spoke on the phone. I asked her where she was, she said ‘in the bath’, we talked.

My head is full of nothing.

jf. x